Drowned in Fire
by IanPhilippe
Summary: Kaldur'ahm dies on a mission led by Dick. Dick has to cope somehow, and surprisingly, Conner helps.


**Disclaimer: Not mine. Obviously.**

**Warnings: character death, angst, pre-slash if you want it there**

**A/N: A response to a challenge. I love Kaldur and I hated killing him, but... it had to be done T_T **

**...**

They all heard Kaldur scream through the comm. Kid Flash and Miss Martian turned, but Robin yelled 'No!' – they had five minutes and forty three seconds to stop the whole city from imploding on itself, and they already got too far to go back. Robin knew that Aqualad could pull through – he always did, THEY always did, all of them, and stopping mass destruction was a priority.

The mission was a success, all in all.

Except the smell of charred flesh and Kaldur's empty eyes. Megan burst into tears, too horrified to speak, Wally and Artemis frowned in disbelief, Conner ran his fist through a half-collapsed pillar with an unearthly growl and Dick attempted resuscitation, even if he was crushingly aware of the impossibility of someone's survival with a hole burned through their stomach. It must've been a bomb, or a thermo-gun, they couldn't really tell for sure, and it didn't matter because Kaldur was cold, colder than usual, and he didn't breathe and they could all still hear his scream.

Dick reported to Batman with eyes cast down to the floor, fists clenched so hard he could feel his nails cutting the skin of his palms. While listing all about the mission, Dick kept mentally repeating 'don't say it's not my fault, don't say it's not my fault, don't say it's not my fault.'

Because it was. He had been the leader of the mission, he was supposed to think of everything, to keep an eye on everyone, to make all the right decisions and to stop believing that they all knew what they were doing.

Batman didn't say anything of the sort. He looked at Dick, and Dick looked at him, and then shook his head and turned his back on Batman, walking out.

Aquaman retrieved Kaldur's body. The funeral was to be held in Atlantis, and none of them were invited. Dick could feel the weight of the whole nation's grudge pressing down on his chest, even if nobody said anything.

He didn't know what to do. Where to go. How to be with anyone else. After Alfred's eleventh worried glance, Dick couldn't bear it anymore. He left a note, and he knew Bat would get it, even if the words were few.

The worst part was that he got Batman now too.

He'd always wanted to be recognized, wanted to become Batman one day, when Bruce would be too old or just too tired of it all, and imagined that he could do it, could do all those difficult decisions, sacrifice himself in the name of what was right, decide for the greater good.

The most terrifying of it all was that he could do it. He'd done it – he'd decided what was more important, the city or a friend, he'd done it instinctively, without even thinking for one second about the possibility of sending just one or two people back to see whether Kaldur needed help, because it would endanger the mission's success. He'd urged them forward, blinded by the illusion of immortality that was completely idiotic in someone who made a living out of risking his life. He'd killed Kaldur as surely as if he'd pulled the trigger himself, and he knew he'd do it again because they saved a whole fucking city and Kaldur's life was single in the face of so, so many that were in danger.

He hated it, the pragmatism in him that told him he'd done nothing wrong. That he'd helped save thousands of people. That he did the right thing.

That he could truly be Batman.

He wanted someone to blame him, so he wouldn't have to do it alone. He was tempted to discard his mask, so everyone would see his real face, his real name, so the blame, the guilt, could not be put away for his everyday life. It was a foolish idea, and Dick knew he couldn't really do it, but he toyed with the thought, imagining people pointing at him even at school, in the streets. It masochistically smoothed out the rough edges of grief as Dick walked through Mount Justice and his eyes behind his sunglasses dared everyone to voice what they were thinking. _It's your fault_. _Aqualad could've lived_.

Nobody said it, and every pat on his back, all the quieted, shaky voices, declared that nobody put the blame in Dick. He knew they were lying – they all lied, they all blamed him, he could SENSE it as surely as he could feel the burning self-hatred in his own heart. And worse, they all pitied him at the same time.

Nobody knew what to do. No mission came immediately, and Dick did not know whether to be glad or frustrated. A mission would take their minds off… but he did not trust himself to not sacrifice another life involuntarily. At night, he dreamed of them all dying, Artemis and Megan torn apart by a bomb, Wally captured and his brains sprayed on a tiled wall, Superboy defeated and slaughtered, and Dick, Robin, pressing on and on, up to his knees in blood and gore and all he could feel was white-hot, searing determination to finish the mission.

He woke up drenched in sweat, staring into the darkness and panting and wishing he could cry, but his eyes were the only part of him that remained painfully, roughly dry.

The next morning, everyone was gone: Wally went to Flash's place, Megan to her uncle, Artemis was visiting her mother according to the note she left behind and Kaldur was still dead. Dick tried to wrap his mind around it as he read the three notes on the fridge, each hurried and brief, and suddenly he had a feeling that they were horribly few in numbers without Kaldur. He left behind a gaping hole and Dick did not know how to fill it.

Superboy did not have anyplace else to go. Dick could hear – and feel – him smashing something in the training room, and he couldn't find it in himself to go check on Conner. His violence reeked of grief, and Dick walked down the corridor, sitting down on the ground and his back to the wall, listening to the grunts and growls and fists smashing the training room. The vibrations of the force reverberated through the walls and through Dick's back and he closed his eyes, throat tight and eyes still dry, and wished he could smash shit too.

It took him some time to stand up and walk in. Conner stopped mid-strike and glared at him – there was rage and frustration and helplessness in his eyes and Dick could have related if at least half of it wasn't directed at him.

"Got any plans?" he asked and Superboy shook his head, intimidating in his wordless anger. Dick shook off his jacket and stepped into the training circle. Superboy straightened up, surprise mingled into all the raw emotion emanating from him.

Dick knew Conner did not want to fight him. Conner still didn't really know how to control all of his strength properly, even after two years, and Dick was still smaller, lighter, easier to break.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to get rid of some of the frustration welling up in him, or if he truly wanted Conner to beat the crap out of him. Maybe both.

Before Conner could react, Dick's boot connected with the clone's stomach, and the fight was on.

It wasn't a training match. Neither of them really tried to not hurt the other – Dick was pretty sure that Conner broke his nose, and he'd heard the clone yowl in pain when Dick's heel dug into his groin and later, ear. They both moved like it was for real, fast and aware of the damage the other could do: not a word passed between them, just grunts and hisses and huffs and the quiet thunderstorm of hits drumming all over their bodies.

It took some time and a few chipped bones (on Dick's part) for them to stop and stare at each other over the training grounds, both breathless, sweaty and tired, and the physical pain blurring out at least a bit of the other kind of pain, much worse and much harder to cure.

"Say it," Dick hissed, wiping the blood that dripped down his chin with the back of his hand. Conner stared at him and Dick glared.

"SAY IT!" he repeated louder, almost yelling if his throat wasn't too sore for that. "Say it's my fault!"

"It is," Conner nodded, and Dick felt his eyes widen in surprise. It was one thing to feel the blame… another to hear it, like a slap in the face. He almost took a step back, but Conner was not saying it with hatred or anger.

"You're the leader," Conner continued, and Dick frowned at that. Yes, he was. He killed Aqualad. He was to blame. Oh fuck… it didn't help hearing it. Something in him moved and he lunged at Superboy again, but his fist was caught mid-air in a strong hand and twisted, and Dick was too sore to truly try and get out of the iron grip. He hissed, more discomfort than pain, and glared at Superboy who was still annoyingly tall – the bruise forming at the side of his jaw in the shape of Dick's boot somehow made Dick feel a little better. Malicious, but better.

Pressed against Superboy's hard body, his arm twisted behind him, he couldn't really walk away.

"Kaldur once told me that everything's always the leader's fault," Conner said, his voice unpleasantly quiet and too close to his ear. Dick grit his teeth and tried to jerk out of Conner's grip, but it only served to pull his muscles further from discomfort and closer to pain and he stopped moving, because apparently Conner wasn't going to let him go.

"I know it's my fault," Dick hissed, defeated, and felt like crying out for the sheer frustration he felt at that. It was his fault, and he couldn't fix it – he could always fix everything, figure out a way around shit, but not this time.

"He also said that it's the leader's burden to carry. To be blamed. But it doesn't change anything about the fact that we all go to every mission knowing we could die."

"No! It was my responsibility to keep you alive!" Dick yelled and punched Conner's chest. It didn't really get him anywhere, but it felt good to punch something solid, even if it was a teammate. Conner's grip on Dick's other wrist tightened.

"No. Your responsibility was to keep the citizens alive."

Something in Dick shifted at that, an avalanche of guilt and horror and anger, and he jerked again, trying to get out of Superboy's grip frantically.

"I don't WANT that kind of responsibility if it means I have to KILL people!"

His yell reverberated through the training room and Superboy's other arm curled around his shoulders, pulling him so close he couldn't move. It was crushing and he couldn't breathe and it was also warm and full of pity and Dick despised it and his glasses dug into his nose when his face buried into Superboy's chest.

"Then run away if you can," Conner mumbled, and Dick knew he couldn't. No matter how much it hurt, how much it killed HIM inside, he had to keep doing this, because that was all he was. Dick Grayson did not matter anymore. Dick Grayson was just life-support for Robin, a decoy, a mask, just like Bruce Wayne was just where Batman went to rest.

"I'm scared," Dick muttered, and he didn't know if Conner heard or not – he had this superhearing going on, but Dick's mouth was buried into his chest, and maybe he didn't hear after all. It didn't matter – there was nothing Conner could say that would make Dick less horrified of who he had become. Who he was to become if (when) he kept going.

"But if you can't handle it," Connor continued after a moment, quiet and strangely calm, "who can? Do you think Kid Flash could handle this responsibility? Or Megan, who cries when her cookies burn? Or a two-year-old clone?"

Dick swallowed and tried to breathe. It was more Conner's sweat than oxygen that got to his lungs, but it was strangely alright, as if Conner's robotic, programmed rationality over death infiltrated Dick's brain and cleared it all up.

"Who will trust me after all this?" Dick whispered, closing his eyes behind his glasses, fingers of his free hand tangling in the damp fabric of Superboy's shirt. It felt safe in his arms, safe with all the guilt and pain and darkness in Dick's head, like he could drown in all of it for a moment and rest assured that there was a safeguarding hand that would pull him up over the surface when he truly couldn't breathe through it all.

Conner let go of his wrist. Dick did not try to fight again.

"I will. Everyone will."

It was suffocating, and Dick's mind flashed with the bits of his dreams, blood and death and mindless, blinding determination, and Dick did not want to be Batman anymore, not truly, not with all that it meant, but maybe he could be Robin and maybe, just maybe it would be enough.

"You're all idiots," he smiled a little, and it wasn't amusement, it was bitterness and grief and irony all in one, and he heard Connor smile above him as his large, hard hand gently raked through Dick's sweat-dampened hair.

"That's why we need a genius."


End file.
